


The Colors of Sky and Rain

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, Genderswap, M/M, Romance, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean is reminded again of why he hates witches so much, Castiel makes it better in whatever way he can, and Gabriel delivers a bit of not-really-welcome news.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Colors of Sky and Rain

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://ladyoniell.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyoniell**](http://ladyoniell.livejournal.com/), for the Secrets Angels IV exchange at [](http://deancastiel.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://deancastiel.livejournal.com/)**deancastiel**

Castiel can’t touch him, or the spell will activate.

Castiel can’t touch him.

It’s like a lifetime smoker being told they can never have another cigarette, or…Sam being told he can never read another book… Gabriel being told he can’t ever have another piece of candy.

It’s…

It’s pure, unadulterated _torture_. He hasn’t even been _allowed_ to touch Castiel for very long, hasn’t had the _right_ to touch Castiel for more than a couple of months now, and some witch – some _dead_ witch, at this point – in some backwater town in Minnesota is going to try and tell him he _never can again_ , or some spell may crop up and try to kill him?

Fuck that shit.

“Dean,” Castiel says, backing away as the hunter edges forward. “Don’t. I can’t determine what the spell was meant to do, and I refuse to allow you to foolishly risk your life. _Again_.”

There’s pain in Castiel’s eyes, and that’s what stops Dean, because he knows this has to hurt Castiel as much as it’s hurting him. How can he be so close, _so close_ to this angel he loves _so damn much_ , and not touch him? “How long?” he finally grits out.

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies, his voice more gravelly than normal. Laced with worry and hurt and sadness and so much else. “Death curses are almost impossible to break, even for us, and without knowing what this one was designed to do…”

Dean swallows hard. “I can’t…I don’t know if I can do this, Cas.” He can’t, there’s not a doubt in his mind. He relies on the angel too much, _needs_ the angel too much. There’s no way he’ll last, short of Castiel disappearing from his life entirely, and Dean won’t allow that. He just _won’t_.

“We’ll figure it out,” Castiel promises, but Dean can hear the uncertainty that leaks into his voice. “I’ll figure this out, Dean, I swear.”

~*~*~

Two weeks later, Castiel still hasn’t figured it out. Neither has Dean, Sam, Bobby, or any of the sources Bobby has called. Even Gabriel, when he finally pops in long enough for them to ask, can’t get a clear read on whatever mojo the witch left inside the hunter, ready to spring open and… _whatever_ at a moment’s notice.

Meanwhile, they keep hunting, because that’s all they _can_ do. Apocalypse averted or not, there’s always things that need killing, and at least when they’re hunting, things feel normal. Dean doesn’t have to fight to keep his angel at arm’s length when he’s busy interviewing witnesses or pretending to be a cop or just downright killing things, and Castiel keeps himself busy by smiting as many evil sons-of-bitches as he can.

It’s the nights that are the hardest. Castiel isn’t there, curled around him, keeping the nightmares at bay, and they return with a vengeance in the angel’s absence. There’s no press of fingers to his forehead, no kiss upon his brow, no _relief_ , and Dean hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since they left Minnesota. The worst, though, is when he does wake, because then there’s no missing the pain in Castiel’s eyes as he sits, fists clenched, across the room. As he tries so hard to keep himself from going to Dean’s side.

Dean is glad…no, scratch that, Dean is _furiously_ grateful that Sam’s no longer hunting with them on a regular basis. He thinks the pity that would surely be in his brother’s eyes would break him.

With nothing else for it, though, they keep hunting, keep searching, keep praying.

~*~*~

Later, Dean will beat himself bloody, figuratively speaking, for how fucking _stupid_ he is. Later, he’ll berate himself for the single moment of weakness. Later, he’ll scream himself hoarse at Castiel for daring to almost get himself killed in the first place.

But this isn’t later.

Now, Dean can’t stop himself from moving too quickly to Castiel’s side, can’t stop himself from yanking the angel up from the ground, couldn’t even _begin_ to stop himself from crushing Castiel to him, kissing him furiously, holding him desperately.

He gets a few moments, a few short, perfect moments, where there’s nothing but the feel of Castiel’s lips beneath his own, Castiel’s hand in his hair, Castiel’s body pressed against his…

He’s aware, very distantly, that the angel is trying to push him away, even as he kisses Dean back and holds him tighter.

Then, there’s nothing but pain.

~*~*~

Waking is agony. The simple act of blinking his eyes open takes willpower he didn’t know he had, and shifting, even just enough to prove to himself he’s still alive, is excruciating. Every muscle burns, his skin has that horrible pins-and-needles feeling, he’d swear right now that even his _hair_ hurts. He opens his mouth to call for Castiel, notes that his jaw feels tight and aches so badly it sets off a splitting headache.

“I’m here, Dean,” Castiel says before the hunter can speak. His voice is right by Dean’s ear, warm breath tickling at the lobe, and for the first time, Dean feels Castiel’s arm wrapped around him, his body pressed gently to Dean’s own. Whatever pain he feels is secondary to the intense relief that tumbles through him at having his angel so close again. He closes his eyes for a moment, just long enough to breathe in Castiel’s scent, to take comfort in the familiarity of it.

“The fuck happened?” he mumbles. The words come out slurred, and something about them rings oddly to him. He chalks it up to his hearing being off. The rest of his body is clearly fucked all to hell, it makes sense that his senses wouldn’t be as sharp.

It’s the hesitation that worries him the most. Castiel doesn’t answer him right away, and Castiel _always_ answers him these days, especially when he asks the important questions.

“Cas?” he asks, his eyes flying open again as he tries to turn toward the angel.

Castiel holds him still, places a finger to Dean’s lips. “It’s all right, Dean, you’re all right. The spell hasn’t finished running its course yet, but it’s _going_ to be all right. Just…”

Dean searches Castiel’s eyes for any clue, but Castiel’s expression is as unreadable as it always is. “ _What?_ ” he yells, fed up enough that he barely registers the way it makes his head throb, and…whoa, wait a second, that’s a little _too_ off, that’s not…

That’s _not_ his voice.

“Dean…”

Dean can’t answer Castiel, because he’s raised his hand, and is too busy staring at it like it’s something foreign to hear a word of what Castiel is saying, because this isn’t his hand, either. Too small, too slender, the fingers too long, no familiar calluses… “Please don’t tell me I got body-swapped with a chick,” he says, weakly. He can handle it, though, if he has been. This is a familiar one, this is something they’ve dealt with before, this is almost _easy_ …

“I’m afraid not,” Castiel says, and that tiny spark of hope is smothered before it ever has a chance to flame. Dean is still staring at his hand, disbelief and fear warring with anger and dread, and overriding all of it is sheer panicked hysteria.

“Then what the fuck is this?” he asks, hating the way he doesn’t have enough control of this softer, higher voice to be able to hide anything.

“The spell was designed to alter you, down to the deepest cellular level,” Castiel says, his voice both gentle and rough, and only the angel could ever manage both so flawlessly. “I don’t know what the purpose was, I only know that you are currently female, exactly as you would have been if John and Mary had given birth to a daughter instead of a son, and that I can’t change it without completing the requirements of the spell first.”

Dean’s mind is spinning, his thoughts completely chaotic, and his head feels like a nuke has gone off inside of it. But he manages to ask, with only the slightest tremble in his voice, “And what are the requirements?”

This hesitation is clearer, the regret in Castiel’s eyes impossible to miss, and Dean’s shoving back, shoving _away_ , before he the angel can open his mouth. He ignores the way every muscle is protesting as he stands, his legs shaky, his perception off – God, he’s _shorter_ – and just stares at Castiel.

“Dean, the spell will _kill_ you. There are no options here.”

Dean can feel it, the way his stomach is clenching painfully, the way it’s starting to feel like molten lava is running through his veins the longer he’s away from Castiel’s touch. “No,” he says, taking another step back, nearly tripping because he’s not used to how this body is wired or how it moves. “No, Cas, I _can’t_ …”

The angel stands, coming toward him now, and Dean barely keeps himself from fleeing. He knows Castiel would never hurt him, he _knows_ it, but the fear is choking him, making his vision wobble and darken until Castiel is right in his space, wrapping his arms around the hunter and holding him together as Dean fights not to fall apart. The fire in his veins and the sick feeling in his gut both vanish, and somehow that’s worse than if they’d stayed, because it means Castiel is right.

“I can’t,” he murmurs again, and Castiel knows, Dean _knows_ he knows because even if they’ve never talked about it, Castiel knows every part of him, and Castiel has seen his dreams. The good and the bad.

 _Especially_ the bad.

“Her purpose was to break you, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “To change you into something you didn’t recognize and then to break you into something that couldn’t be fixed, because she _knew_. Don’t let her succeed. Please.”

Memories of Hell are battering at him, sulfur stinging his nose, screams echoing in his ears. His own among them. “I…” Castiel will take care of him, Castiel can make it okay, he thinks. But he’s never…not since…

“I can’t lose you, Dean Winchester. I _won’t. Trust me_ with this, please.”

Castiel doesn’t use that word often. He doesn’t need to. To hear it twice in such a short time makes Dean’s will crumble, and he’s tipping his face up, pressing his lips to Castiel’s without another word, and yeah, maybe he’s terrified, maybe every instinct is screaming at him to _run, run, RUN, dammit_ , but he’s here, and he’s trusted Castiel with his very soul.

He can trust him with this.

~*~*~

It’s hard, so much harder than he thought, to give up control, to let Castiel do this. Castiel is hesitant, unsure, and innocent in a way that’s almost painful. He’s never done this, because Dean’s never let him. Dean is _always_ the one in control. It’s never been a point of contention between them, because Castiel understands the reasons, but it’s so fucking _hard_ to teach him where to go, how to move, what to do, when he’s already so busy trying to keep himself from bolting.

And he doesn’t know this body, or how it works, and things he’s always taken for granted, the things that should make him feel good and help take his mind off the paralyzing fear just aren’t working.

Still, when Castiel slides his hands under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, when he grazes his thumbs underneath Dean’s unfamiliar, full breasts, when he dips his head to nuzzle at the hollow of Dean’s throat… _those_ things feel good. Strange, so _different_ , but good.

Slowly, so slowly, articles of clothing get removed, and with every new touch of skin on skin, Dean starts to relax. Inch by inch, he begins to give himself over to the tenderness in Castiel’s touches and the care in his eyes. He won’t look down at his body, isn’t ready for what he’ll see. And it helps, anyway, keeping his gaze firmly focused on his angel. Keeps Alastair where he’s supposed to be, locked in the deepest corners of his memory.

Castiel moves with almost glacial slowness, sucking bruises into Dean’s skin as his hand explores the folds between Dean’s legs. Dean is eventually reduced to trembling gasps, moans that sound nothing like him, before the angel finally shifts, balanced over him, staring into Dean’s eyes.

Dean can do this. He knows he can do this. He reaches up, tugs Castiel back to him, guides the angel into him. There’s pain, pain that makes Dean bite down hard on Castiel’s shoulder, as much to stifle the cry as to remind himself of who he’s here with. But it’s not terrible, nothing at all like…

He won’t think of it, refuses to let his mind go there again. Not now.

Not like this, with Castiel moving inside him as he tugs at Dean’s ear with his teeth and then moves to kiss him.

Dean kisses back with all the intensity he’s starting to feel, this impossible build-up of sensation so unlike anything he’s ever known before. Castiel slides deep, and pleasure sparks behind Dean’s eyes. The angel is impossibly gentle, exactly what Dean needs right now, and the pain is already fading to a distant memory by the time he breaks and falls the first time, ecstasy coursing through every shaking limb.

Before he can even get his bearings and catch his breath, he’s climbing again, Castiel driving deeper now, taking more, bringing Dean right back to the brink as he gets closer to completion himself. He’s murmuring words in Dean’s ear between kisses, a strange mix of English and Enochian and Latin, and Dean can’t focus, can’t think enough to try and translate, but he thinks it probably all means the same thing.

 _I love you too, Cas_ , he doesn’t say, but feels with every fiber of his being, and then they’re crying out together, _falling_ together, and Castiel claims his mouth with a brutality that’s _nothing_ like Hell and everything Dean’s ever wanted.

There’s a sound like glass shattering in Dean’s ears, a flood of burning heat that overtakes him in a wave of light and thunder and agony and ecstasy and then…

Darkness.

~*~*~

Gabriel’s there when he wakes this time, and Dean’s never seen that expression on the archangel’s face before. It’s too serious, and too full of something that too closely resembles sympathy, and Dean doesn’t even have to look down to know that he’s still not himself.

It didn’t work.

Which means whatever ultimate purpose the spell was designed for, it hasn’t succeeded yet.

Although…

Castiel isn’t touching him, isn’t anywhere _near_ him, in fact, and Dean feels fine. Maybe a little sore, but that’s understandable, all things considered. There’s no tightness in his stomach, no burning in his blood. The spell isn’t getting ready to kill him anymore.

Then why…

“Apparently congratulations are in order,” Gabriel says, altogether too softly. Dean doesn’t trust that voice, coming from that being. _Definitely_ doesn’t trust the words coming out of his mouth.

“Gabriel,” Castiel admonishes from across the room. Dean’s eyes go to him, and he sees how tense the angel is. Sees the way Castiel can’t – or won’t – look at him.

Something inside him clenches. “What the hell’s going on?” he demands, sitting up, belatedly remembering to bring the blanket with him when he sees the smirk dancing at Gabriel’s mouth. His glare doesn’t faze the archangel in the slightest.

“Two-part spell, Dean-o,” Gabriel says, crossing his arms. “Whatever you did to this witch, you _really_ pissed her off good. Even I can’t touch a spell like this one as it stands, not without doing some serious damage to that pretty body of yours.” He glances over at Castiel, apology in his amber gaze, before looking back at Dean. “The main spell’s worn off, you fulfilled what it wanted you to fulfill.” A small hesitation, but before Dean can demand an answer, he continues. “You got yourself knocked up by my baby bro.”

Dean blinks, and the world grays for an instant. He clenches a fist in the bed sheets to steady himself as he stares blankly at Gabriel. “What?” he asks, numbly.

“Them’s the breaks, big boy – _ha_ , sorry – when you get involved in things witches don’t want you involved with, and then ignore your guardian angel when he tells you not to be an idiot.” Gabriel’s lips twitch again, like this is all sort of fun to him, even though his eyes are still solemn and apologetic. “Look, Dean, the long and short of it is? I can change you back. I’m probably the _only_ one who can change you back. But I can’t do it until the child’s out of the way, one way or another.”

Dean can’t do more than continue staring in frozen shock.

Gabriel sighs, glances again at his brother. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Ring me when you figure things out, huh?”

And then he’s gone, and Dean’s more aware than ever of the chasm Castiel has put between them.

~*~*~

It takes a long time for Dean’s sluggish thoughts to become something reasonably coherent, and even longer for Castiel to lose the edge of the guilt that’s plastered all over his face. But before the angel can look over at him, before Dean’s even half ready to talk to Castiel, the hunter finds himself walking unsteadily into the bathroom and closing the door firmly behind him.

He doesn’t want to look in the mirror, isn’t prepared for whatever he’ll see, but he has to, he needs to know. He takes one shuddering breath, then another, and steps in front of the sink.

The first thing he sees is his eyes, and he’s impossibly grateful for their familiarity. The shapes are a little different, but the eyes themselves are the same…the same color, the same intensity. But everything else…

His hair is the same length, but it’s finer, and without the usual product in it, it lies strangely, mussed in a way that could be sexy on a girl who was maybe a little more butch, but not on someone as…God, as _delicate_ -looking as he is. Fine, high cheekbones, flawlessly smooth pale skin, a small nose he’d almost call _cute_ , and eyes that are large and expressive set the way they are.

He reaches up, touches two shaking fingers to the pout of his mouth.

This isn’t him. He doesn’t want this to _be_ him. There’s nothing of _Dean_ here except in his eyes, and he hates it, hates it intensely. There’s no way he could live like this, and God, what would he have done if Gabriel _wasn’t_ around? If there _was_ no way to change this stranger back to look like him?

He wants it gone, _now_ , but his eyes slide down, almost involuntarily, and his hand moves to his stomach of its own accord. Gabriel can’t change him back until the child – dear God, the _child_ – is gone.

_One way or another._

He can’t live like this, the thought makes him sick to his stomach, but can he put up with it? Just for a little while? Because the thought of getting the…child…out of the way the _other_ way, the way Gabriel would never have said outright…that makes him feel more than a little ill as well.

Dean’s always wanted a family, but not like this. _Never_ like this, and _definitely_ not while he’s still hunting full time, and God, Castiel, what can he possibly be thinking right now?

But maybe…

Maybe…

Dean stares at the face in the mirror for a long time, and then he steels himself and goes to talk to his angel.


End file.
